


Actual Prom King Brandon Saad

by popfly



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 10:04:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/popfly/pseuds/popfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick might be a little jealous of the new kid.</p>
<p>
  <i>Sure Brandon is basically the prom king from every feel-good teenage movie Patrick’s sisters have made him watch, but that doesn’t mean Jonny wants that.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Actual Prom King Brandon Saad

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't been able to get Actual Prom King Brandon Saad out of my head since the Blackhawks Convention. Again, thanks to all the girls there for enduring me calling him that all fucking weekend. Thanks to Lacey for the hand-holding and cheerleading and generally being awesome. And to Danielle for the speedy beta; you are forever and always the best.
> 
> They're at boarding school. I thought I should point that out since I gave you basically no back story. Boarding school. Shared rooms and uniforms, aw yeah.

The pen cap between Patrick's teeth doesn't stand a chance. He likes to mangle them beyond recognition, pressing against them with his incisors until the plastic gives way, flattening and twisting. There's something really satisfying about it, and it keeps him focused on the text in front of him. 

Which is why he doesn't notice Jonny reaching out until he's already slapped the cap out of Patrick's mouth, spit flying out after it. Patrick gapes up at him, too surprised to wipe his mouth. He doesn't care if there's saliva dripping off his chin, Jonny deserves to be grossed out, the freak. 

"What the fuck," Patrick says, and Jonny doesn't even grace him with an eye roll, just goes back to his work like nothing happened. 

"Who does their math homework in pen?" he asks, which is not the response Patrick was looking for. He sounds bored, using that extra deadpan tone that makes Patrick's blood boil. He always wants to try harder to rile Jonny up when he uses that tone. 

"Someone who gets shit right on the first try," Patrick says, the smug smirk coming easily as he watches Jonny erase something from his notebook, brushing the paper with the side of his hand. 

"You're disgusting," Jonny says, but Patrick knows he's just jealous. He works his ass off for his A's, while Pat barely has to study and still passes every test with flying colors. He can't help that he has a memory for numbers and shit, it just comes naturally to him. 

"Do you want help?" Patrick asks and Jonny scoffs, still not lifting his eyes from his paper. 

Patrick shrugs, mostly to himself since Jonny won't look up, and sticks the pen cap back in his mouth. It'd only landed on the table, and he figures whatever germs the library tables have aren't as bad as some of the other shit he's put in his mouth. Jonny grimaces anyway, the asshole, down at his paper instead of directly at Patrick. He still knows it's meant for him.

It’s early in the semester, so the library is fairly empty. Even emptier because it’s a Saturday, and Patrick would lament being inside studying on a Saturday afternoon while the majority of campus is lounging in the commons in the sunshine, except he’s used to it by now. He’d put up a fight the first semester of rooming with Jonny, but gave up pretty quickly when they were paired together again for their second semester. You gotta pick your battles when it comes to Jonathan Toews.

Besides, if Patrick studies with him on Saturday afternoons Jonny will usually let him pick their Saturday night activity, and that’s way more important to Patrick than laying in the grass bickering with the guys.

Tonight the plan is drinking, because they’re finally seniors, and that is what seniors do in their rooms on Saturday nights. Patrick had been to a few parties the year before, when Sharpy and Duncs and Seabs were seniors and hosting them in their rooms, and now it’s up to him and Jonny to keep the tradition rolling. Patrick’s got a passable fake ID and a little spending money in his wallet, and he cannot wait.

It’s starting to get cold in the evenings, the crispness of fall giving way to the bitterness of winter, and Patrick finds he’s looking forward to the snow. It’s easier to deal with at school, because they don’t have to shovel and the only time they go anywhere it’s in a transport van or Jonny’s old-man sedan, so he doesn’t have to worry about driving in it either. Plus cold weather means either sweaters over their button ups, or blazers, the school crest emblazoned on their chests, and Patrick loves the way Jonny looks in both.

Okay, Patrick loves the way Jonny looks in basically anything, but he can’t be blamed for the school uniform thing. That’s practically a societal norm, just ask Britney Spears.

Patrick’s eager to get to the liquor store, and since they have to drive a town over, he’s rushing Jonny as soon as they get back to their room. Jonny is standing in front of the full length mirror on the back of their door, buttoning a shirt and making faces at himself.

“Does this make me look legal?”

“Are you serious right now? Jonny, you would look legal if you were wearing a shirt with Spongebob Squarepants on it.” It’s not a lie, either. Jonny could easily pass for 18, if not older. He’s only half a year away, anyway. But beyond that he’s got a pretty grown up face. Not like Patrick, who always looks about twelve. And Patrick can’t even blame it on the receding hairline, because his is just as bad.

Receding hairlines at 16 and 17 - it’s a fucking travesty.

Patrick bumps in front of Jonny, trying to nudge him away from the mirror so Patrick can make sure his curls are properly distributed over his forehead, and Jonny nudges back, so hard Patrick almost tips over sideways.

“Don’t be a douche,” Jonny says, even though he’s the one that was just shoving. Patrick makes a face, but Jonny’s still staring at himself in the mirror. Vain motherfucker.

“You look great, Jonny, I’m sure the liquor store clerk will be very pleased with all your extra effort, now can we fucking go?”

Jonny rolls his eyes at his reflection, brushes at the front of his hair with his fingertips and then nods. “Wear a real pair of shoes, please,” he says, nodding down at the sneaker pile near the door. Patrick eyes them longingly but agrees that pink Nikes probably make him look younger, so he ties on his uniform shoes and bounces on his toes near the door while Jonny scoops up his keys.

There’s an attendant at the booth at the top of the drive, and Jonny hands over his school ID.

“Just heading out for a drive while the weather is still nice,” Jonny says, in that confident monotone that could get him acquitted for murder. Patrick doesn’t even look over, just keeps bobbing his head to the music that Jonny had turned down low, but he’s sure Jonny’s smiling that “trust me, I’m a good Canadian boy” smile that wins over parents and teachers alike.

It’s a good thing Jonny doesn’t choose to use his powers for actual evil. They’d all be fucked.

The attendant signs them out and they creep through the gates out onto the main road, and Patrick waits until Jonny’s window is all the way rolled up to reach forward and crank the volume on the stereo. “Freedom,” he shouts, knocking his knuckles against Jonny’s shoulders. It’s the same thing he does every time they leave campus, and it’s half in jest. But it does feel nice to be winding through the countryside in Jonny’s boring sedan, music blasting and Patrick laughing when Jonny winces at his singing.

The drive isn’t too long, but it’s long enough for Patrick to relax into the seat, elbow propped on the center console, watching Jonny drive. He’s a pretty crappy driver in regular city traffic, but out on the empty county highway he’s fine, only one hand on the wheel and the other splayed out on his thigh, fingers tapping along to the song on the stereo. Patrick watches them dance along Jonny’s inseam and zones out a little, brain heading to dangerous fantasy territory, until Jonny’s voice pulls him out of it.

“Huh,” Patrick says, and looks up at Jonny. Jonny turns his focus back to the road, but flicks his eyes over at Patrick. His profile is really nice, especially on this side, where he has the scar on his lip from a childhood fight with his brother.

“You alright there?” Jonny asks, and his voice is a mixture of amusement and actual concern. Patrick grins to dispel the concern, and reaches over to flick Jonny’s ear. Jonny hisses and jerks away. “Not while I’m driving, dickbag.”

“I’m fine,” Patrick says, ignoring the insult. “Just zoning out. Looking forward to tonight.”

Jonny hums. “Yeah. Should be fun.”

They get out of the liquor store without incident. The clerk is a girl that can’t be much older than them, and she’s too distracted by Jonny’s smile to even glance at Patrick’s ID. Patrick glares, but Jonny doesn’t seem to notice at all. He bounces out to the car, a case of PBR tucked in the crook of his arm, and Patrick hefts the paper bag with the cheap handles of vodka.

“If I’d known you could flirt us into liquor, I wouldn’t have bothered paying for a fake,” Patrick says as he angles into the passenger seat, and Jonny laughs.

“Aw, don’t be jealous, Kaner,” he says, and reaches out to ruffle Patrick’s hair. Patrick tries to duck away, but Jonny’s got ridiculous gorilla arms, and he rubs his hand against Patrick’s scalp, messing up the hard work he’d done in front of the mirror earlier.

Patrick isn’t jealous, or at least not in the way Jonny probably thinks. He didn’t want the clerk to be smiling at him. He just didn’t want her smiling at Jonny.

*****  
Their room barely fits all the people that show up, and Patrick is squished into a corner, braced against the edge of his desk and nearly sitting on it, shooting the shit with Leddy. Leddy’s a good kid, but quiet, and Patrick can barely hear him over the hum of other conversations and the music. He just nods and smiles, because Leddy is clearly already drunk, and probably has no idea what he’s saying anyway.

He smiles back at least, so Patrick isn’t nodding along to anything inappropriate. He’s pretty pleased with himself, and tosses back the last of his beer.

“Need a new one,” he says, and points to his empty in case Leddy can’t hear him either. He gestures to Leddy’s can then, a silent offer to grab him a new beer, and Leddy nods, flashing Patrick a thumbs up.

The room is like a solid mass of flesh, barely any cracks for Patrick to squeeze through. He has to elbow and nudge and in one case pinch, but he makes it over to the mini-fridge eventually, sweat beading at his temples from the exertion. The fridge is bursting at the seams, and Patrick loads cans into the crook of his elbow so he can reach the coldest ones at the back, replacing the less frosty cans and holding one cold one to his forehead as he turns back to scan the room.

Getting back to Leddy is an exhausting thought. He can’t even see Leddy if he stands on tiptoe, because he still hasn’t had the growth spurt he’s sure is on the horizon (no way he’s full grown at 5’ 9”, no fucking way). He does spot Shawzy, and reaches out to snag his sleeve.

“Can you take this beer to Leddy?” he shouts, and Shawzy frowns at him, but takes the can. Shawzy’s got enough energy (and the pointiest elbows Patrick’s ever had the displeasure of coming into contact with) to get back through the crowd, and he’s two years below Patrick so he’s used to doing his bidding.

“Fuck off, Kaner,” he says, and Patrick reels back, genuinely shocked.

“Come on, man.” Patrick side-eyes the can he still has pressed to his face and then holds it out. “I got you one too.”

Shawzy rolls his eyes, clearly not believing that the can that had just been cooling Patrick’s sweaty skin was for him, but he takes it anyway and turns, jabbing an elbow into the nearest body and making a path for himself.

Patrick is still grinning smugly as he extricates another icy PBR from the back of the fridge. He contemplates literally patting himself on the back, but then he turns and sees Jonny lounging against the wall near the door and thinks maybe he can get Jonny to praise him for his ingenuity instead.

There are only a few people between the fridge and the door, so Patrick barely has to injure anyone to get through, and he’s extra proud of himself when he lunges between two bodies and bounces against Jonny’s solid biceps, settling himself there.

“Hey,” he says, smiling up at Jonny, who is already a giant and looms over Patrick in a not-entirely-unpleasant way.

Jonny nods down at him, mouth moving, but he’s looking elsewhere. That’s when Patrick notices that Jonny is talking to someone. Someone with great hair and a curling grin, and wait. Who the fuck is this guy?

“Who is this?” Patrick asks, not caring if he’s rudely interrupting. This guy is way good looking and has great hair, and why is he smiling at Jonny like that?

Jonny grimaces in apology at the guy, which seriously, fuck that, and turns to Patrick.

“Kaner, this is Brandon Saad. He’s new. He’s rooming with Shawzy this year.”

Rooming with Shawzy. Patrick remembers Shawzy mentioning a new roommate. Remembers him gushing about a new roommate, actually. How he’s super smart, and funny in a stealthy way, and is awesome at video games, and is a super nice guy …

… and now he’s what, flirting with Jonny? Patrick is going to hate his guts.

“Hi,” the guy, Brandon, says, and actually wipes his hand on his jeans before holding it out for Patrick to shake. Patrick eyeballs it, because who shakes hands, what is this, a job interview? He makes sure to get as much can condensation in his palm before grabbing Brandon’s hand, and Brandon doesn’t even flinch as Patrick shakes.

“‘Sup,” Patrick says, fully aware that he sounds like a tool and not giving one shit about it. He gets a fistful of Jonny’s shirt sleeve, and delights at the face Jonny makes when the wetness of Patrick’s hand seeps through the fabric of Jonny’s shirt. “Jonny, I am awesome. Want to hear how awesome I am?”

“Kaner, Brandon was talking,” Jonny says, and looks back over at Brandon. “Sorry, go on.”

Patrick gapes up at Jonny while Brandon talks, because Brandon is talking about _classes_. Not only did Jonny blow him off for this guy, but he blew him off to talk about _classes_. On a Saturday night. With a beer in his hand and Patrick at his shoulder.

It’s appalling. And it hurts more than Patrick would care to admit. He debates staying there to sulk, but instead he chugs his beer and heads back to the fridge. And then he stays there, fishing out beer after beer, and gets blisteringly, blindingly drunk.

*****

His brain has shrunk to the size of a pea. A dried pea. A shriveled, tiny, aching pea. He can’t unstick his eyes enough to open them, and he thinks that’s for the best, because any hint of light penetrating his eyelids is like needles stabbing him right in the cornea.

PBR is awesome and cheap and beer drunk is the best drunk, in Patrick’s opinion, but PBR hangovers are the worst. There’s a sour taste at the back of his tongue, and his stomach is rumbling in a way that promises he’ll be spending at least some of his morning communing with the toilet. And he hurts.

He groans, hoping the sound will rouse Jonny. Maybe Jonny will bring him coffee and hashbrowns from the dining hall. Or eggs, because buffet eggs are Patrick’s favorite things. He loves how they come out of the chafing dish in clumps, and are always tepid. It makes no sense, but he loves them anyway.

The groan gets no response, however, and Patrick shuffles sideways towards the edge of his mattress delicately, sliding his head out from under his pillow as slowly as he can, and slits his eyelids open.

Jonny’s bed is empty.

Patrick’s stomach flips violently, and he lurches out of bed and towards the bathroom.

His memories of the night before are vague at best, and come to him in flashes. Some of them are definitely distorted by the beer, too, because he’s pretty sure there weren’t any actual Disney princes at their party, but the guy Patrick is picturing Jonny talking to sure seems like one in his head.

Brandon. Patrick remembers his name, the way Jonny’s mouth had looked shaping it. Patrick doesn’t know if Jonny’s face had actually glowed when he talked to him, but memory-Jonny is lit up like a fucking Christmas tree, and it makes Patrick sick again.

Did he spend the night with him? Is that why he’s not there?

“Patrick?” comes a voice from the other side of the bathroom door. It’s Jonny’s voice, monotonous as ever, but Patrick can hear the concern in it. He can also smell hashbrowns, and he grins to himself, head hanging in the toilet bowl.

“Yeah,” he says, voice croaky, and reaches for toilet paper to clean himself off.

Jonny’s laying things out on his desk when Patrick comes out of the bathroom, styrofoam coffee cups and to-go containers, plastic utensils in packages that include flimsy napkins and tiny packets of salt and pepper. Patrick can see a perfectly molded mound of buffet eggs when Jonny pops one container open, and he could hug Jonny, he’s so pleased.

It helps that Jonny’s bed is clearly rumpled, covers twisted up, so he slept in their room last night. Patrick is so relieved he almost forgets how much his head hurts.

“You are my favorite,” Patrick says, and presses up against Jonny’s side instead of wrapping his arms around him. Jonny shrugs, but doesn’t move to dislodge Patrick.

“You were pretty trashed, figured you could use the grease. And you know,” he reaches up to rub the back of his neck, color on his cheeks like he’s blushing. Patrick wonders if it’s chilly outside. “I know how much you love those awful eggs in the brunch buffet on the weekends, so I got some for you. I don’t know how you can eat those fucking things.”

Jonny’s container has a short stack of pancakes and syrup, a couple of sausages, and wheat toast. Patrick’s has a pile of bacon and the aforementioned mound of eggs, another pile of hashbrowns, and Jonny even remembered to grab jelly for his toast. Patrick’s stomach rumbles, but not in a “run for the bathroom” way. He shoves two pieces of bacon in his mouth and chews them happily while he tears into the utensils package.

“These eggs are the best eggs of all the eggs,” Patrick says, mouth full of bacon, and plops down on his bed with his food in his lap, coffee cup clutched in one hand. “Seriously, this is awesome. Thanks.”

Jonny shrugs again, keeping his head ducked, and perches on the desk chair to eat. He hates eating in bed, especially toast. Patrick gets crumbs everywhere and doesn’t care. Toast crumbs are definitely not the worst things his sheets have ever seen.

“I haven’t seen you that drunk in a while, you were pretty sloppy.” Jonny cuts his eyes over to Patrick, fork in mid-air, a perfectly sized chunk of pancake speared on it. He pops it into his mouth and chews while Patrick grimaces, sorting back through his few hazy memories of the night before to see if he did - or said - anything unforgiveable.

“Did anyone get video? I’m not going to have three hundred emails with YouTube links again, am I?” That hasn’t happened since Sharpy graduated, but he’d left Bollig behind as his emissary, and Patrick wouldn’t put it past the big, bearded douchebag.

“No, no video, not that I know of. And yes, I asked Bollig before he left.”

Patrick grins up at Jonny, who is seriously the best. He’s always looked out for Patrick, and it makes Patrick feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Or it would if he wasn’t already fuzzy from the hangover. But warm, definitely warm.

Warmer in some places than others, and it’s only mildly alarming that Patrick is talking about his heart and not his dick.

“You weren’t even coherent, by the time I found you. You were mumbling into Shawzy’s neck, mostly, which - “ Jonny trails off and swallows, gulping coffee while Patrick tries to remember anything about Shawzy’s neck. “Are you,” Jonny starts, and then rubs the back of his neck again. “Are you into Shawzy?”

Patrick’s eyes almost fall out of his head, and he chokes on his eggs. “What?” he asks, coughing. Jonny starts to stand, hovering awkwardly over his chair with his knees bent at odd angles when Patrick holds up a hand to stave him off. He swigs his own coffee, which is perfect, of course it is, Jonny knows exactly how Patrick drinks his coffee, and then coughs again. “Did you seriously just ask me that?”

“Well, you were draped all over him like a cheap suit,” Jonny says, getting defensive, dropping into his chair and viciously stabbing an innocent piece of pancake. “How am I supposed to know, it’s not like you have a sparkling track record of impeccable taste and judgment or anything.”

Patrick is wounded, he really is. But it doesn’t stop him from shoveling more eggs into his mouth, chewing and swallowing and thinking of a reply. His brain is clearly not with the program when what comes out of his mouth is, “My taste isn’t that bad. Just because I’m not into perfect Disney prince hair.”

He drops his face nearly into his food, feeling his face heat up. He wasn’t going to bring up Brandon, because jealousy is kind of a dead giveaway, and he’s been hiding his raging boner for Jonny so well for so long he kind of figured he’d just keep it swept under the rug for the length of their high school careers.

“Considering your thing with Sharpy, I don’t even know how to respond to that.”

Patrick’s head snaps up so hard his brain rattles in his skull and he groans, wincing against the sharp pain. Jonny’s face melts into sympathy, and he waves his hand like he wants to just drop it. Patrick is so on board with that plan.

He makes no more mentions of Disney prince hair, and he doesn’t tease Jonny for talking about school at their party either. He just eats his eggs and drinks his perfect coffee and lets the whole thing go.

*****

Brandon becomes part of the group, and the thing Patrick hates most is how he can’t even hate the guy. He’s too nice.

It’s really irritating.

And then he comes to the library on a Saturday morning and Patrick is incensed.

“Really?” he asks, watching Brandon make his way through the tables towards the one that Patrick and Jonny have taken over. Jonny’s eyebrows furrow in confusion as he slides his books around, making room for Brandon.

“He has a paper due this week that he wants to work on.”

“People who voluntarily hang out at the library on Saturday mornings are fucking lame,” Patrick says, his whisper almost a hiss, and Jonny’s face crumples a little before he wrestles it into a smile for Brandon, who dumps his backpack onto the table and slides into a chair a little too cheerfully for Patrick’s taste.

“Hey guys,” he says, and Patrick grumbles back before sticking his nose in his book, pulling his English worksheet a little closer to himself and ignoring Jonny leaning over to duck his head closer to Brandon’s so they can talk quietly.

He shows up at their room that night too, looming over Shawzy’s shoulder and grinning, and he hands Patrick a six-pack of his favorite beer, clapping him on the shoulder before brushing past him into the room, perching on the edge of Jonny’s bed like it’s totally normal for him to be there.

The next Saturday he’s already at their library table waiting for them, and Patrick has had enough.

“I’m going back to the room,” he says, grabbing Jonny’s arm and dragging him into an aisle of books so they don’t disturb the other weirdos studying at 10AM on a Saturday.

“What, why?”

“I,” Patrick starts, and scans his brain for a good excuse. “I have a headache.”

“We didn’t drink last night,” Jonny says, eyebrows tucked together in the middle of his forehead.

“It’s a regular headache, Jonny, people get headaches from things other than hangovers.”

“You don’t.” Jonny’s eyes are scanning his face like he’s looking for signs of a headache. Patrick winces a little and holds his fingers up to his temple. It’s overselling, he knows, but Jonny is making him uncomfortable, scrutinizing him like that. “Did you hit your head?”

“No, not that I remember. Maybe I’m getting sick or something, could be allergies, I don’t know, my head just hurts, okay? I’m going to go back to the room.”

Jonny is still studying him, but he nods. “Yeah, maybe you can sleep it off?”

Patrick shrugs. “Maybe. I’ll see you later.”

Their plans for driving out to the liquor store and then getting trashed that night are probably shot, but Patrick almost doesn’t care as he climbs back into bed and pulls the covers up over his head. He’s worried about getting drunk in Jonny and Brandon’s presence anyway. Who knows what he’d do, what he’d say. He’s grilled Shawzy about the last party, but Shawzy swears he couldn’t understand a word Patrick was saying, so that’s one bullet dodged. He’s not daring enough to tempt fate again.

Jonny comes back to the room, alone, and sits on the edge of Patrick’s bed. Patrick is dozing, but he wakes up when he hears Jonny come in, hears water running in the bathroom, and then feels the mattress dip near his hip. He’s curled up on his side, covers still pulled up over his head, and feels the warm weight of Jonny’s hand on his shoulder.

“You awake? I brought Advil.”

Patrick drags the blanket off his head, not caring that his hair is probably a complete disaster, and looks up at Jonny. Jonny’s smiling, a weird soft smile that Patrick doesn’t see that often, and holding a cup of water and a pill bottle.

“You got me Advil?” Patrick asks, and Jonny nods. His cheeks are flushed again, and Patrick wants to clamp a hand around the back of his neck, drag him down and kiss him until he’s red all over. “Did you cut your study session short to go get me painkillers for my head?”

Jonny looks embarrassed now, and the hand holding the pill bottle makes an aborted move towards his head, like if he wasn’t holding it he’d be sheepishly rubbing at his hair. He shrugs, frowning, and holds it out instead. “Here. Take two.”

Patrick’s head doesn’t actually hurt, but Jonny looks so serious. He props himself up enough to free his hands so he can open the bottle, shaking two pills out into his palm and then popping them into his mouth. Jonny watches him, furrow in his forehead, and hands him the water. Patrick chugs it down, and a little spills out of the corner of his mouth and down his chin. He licks at the drop, then reaches up to rub it away with his thumb, and looks up at Jonny.

Jonny is staring at his mouth, his own mouth dropped open. His eyes are glassy and so dark, like they get sometimes when Jonny’s drunk, and Patrick very carefully reaches out to set the cup on the bedside table. “Jonny,” he says, and Jonny shakes himself, drags his eyes back up to Patrick’s.

“Jonny,” Patrick says again, and leans forward. He’s starting to think he’s got it all wrong. Sure Brandon is basically the prom king from every feel-good teenage movie Patrick’s sisters have made him watch, but that doesn’t mean Jonny wants that. Jonny is kind of a Disney prince himself, especially with his hair getting long and kind of flopping attractively over his forehead. Maybe he’s looking for someone different, someone the opposite of him. Someone like Patrick.

Jonny is staring at him, and Patrick realizes he’s said Jonny’s name twice and not followed it up with anything but inner dialogue. He’s basically been zoning out on Jonny’s face and Jonny’s hair and Jonny’s eyes and Jonny’s mouth …

Patrick tips forward and closes his eyes and actually manages to get his lips square on Jonny’s on the first try. He takes one moment to be super proud of himself before he focuses on what he’s doing, and on what Jonny’s doing.

And what Jonny is doing is kissing back.

Kissing back good, too, shifting closer on the bed to press them together more firmly, tilting his head so his nose isn’t smashed against Patrick’s cheekbone. And opening up under Patrick’s lips, sucking one of them between his and licking at it. Patrick’s face flushes hot, and his hands clench onto Jonny’s shoulders so hard he can feel the knots of tension smoothing out under his fingers.

Patrick leans away, leaving his forehead against Jonny’s, and pants into the space between them. When he opens his eyes Jonny is staring at him, dark eyes almost crossed, the rest of his face distorted and blurry from being so close. Patrick can tell he’s smiling, though, and smiles back.

“So you don’t like Brandon?” Patrick says, and Jonny jerks his head back, furrow between his eyebrows again.

“What? Why would you think I like Brandon?”

Patrick scoffs, and then scoffs again, and waves a hand in the air. “Actual prom king Brandon Saad? Disney prince Brandon Saad?” He silently begs his mouth to stop moving but the words keep coming out. “Oh, I don’t know, because he’s perfect and tall and likes to study on Saturdays and smiles at you like you’re the best thing ever?”

Jonny’s got his lips rolled into his mouth, and the skin around them is red from Patrick’s stubble, and Patrick can tell he’s trying not to laugh. Patrick rolls his eyes.

“Shut up, it’s not like it would be that weird,” he says, hands twisting in his lap. Jonny shakes his head.

“It would be pretty weird,” Jonny says. “Considering I’ve been in love with you since freshman fucking year, it would be really, really weird.”

“I - what?” Patrick boggles, but Jonny sits there, gaze steady, until Patrick gets himself together. “Freshman year?”

Jonny nods. “Freshman year.”

“Jesus, Jonny.” Patrick reaches out and gets a fistful of Jonny’s shirt, dragging him closer. “We have some time to make up for.”

Jonny snorts, which is not attractive, but it doesn’t stop Patrick wanting to put his tongue in Jonny’s mouth.

“Actual prom king Brandon Saad,” Jonny mutters as he leans in. “You are ridiculous.”

That does.

But not for long.


End file.
